“F*ck, Bill! Don’t you get it? Victorine isn’t good for you, the same way my mum wasn’t good for my dad. And now you’re asking me to, what? Be a cheater, too? That’s good, because I really want to drive Ashton and Toddy to Valium, too. Please… Just…”

Bill pulled a hand down the side of his face. Damien knew more than he should, and not enough to have all the information. Damien didn’t know how it felt to see her walk someone hand in hand with someone else. Damien didn’t see what Bill saw when he looked into her eyes. Bill wasn’t driven to Valium. It was a prescription. Damien didn’t understand. Ashton was shagging Lucian behind his back. If she already violated the sanctity of an engagement, Damien had the same right. Damien and Ashton could be happily married and still live separate lives. But Damien wouldn’t listen. He was beyond listening. All he wanted to do was talk, to accuse. He was angry. Bill was angry, too. Bill was angry at Lucian, at Ashton, at Damien, at Victorine. And he couldn’t voice it. If he told Damien what his wh*re of a fiancée was doing, Damien would be crushed; like he had said, women like that weren’t good. He was mad at Damien for saying what he did, and Bill supposed if he was in a better state of mind, he would be calmer. He was mad at Victorine for obvious reasons. And at the root of it all was Bill, himself, whom he was the maddest at for so many reasons.

“Damien, you don’t have all the facts.” Bill tried to keep his voice level. He tried to remain calm. “If you’re just going to point fingers without information…” Bill didn’t know what to say. Something boiled in him until he snapped. “… Then get the f*ck out of my house.”

Bill didn’t know who kissed who first, but now, as Bill held Victorine to him, her lips trailing the length of his neck as he struggled to put the key in the lock. He had done as she told him to. He waited, just as he had for three years, his arms outstretched and anxious to take her in his arms and reacquaint himself with her perfect body once more.

Finally, the door busted open and together, they stumbled into the apartment, entangled in each other’s arms.

Bill and Damien’s fight had brought about one thing—total privacy. There was no roommate to walk in on them and they could make love on whatever surface they wanted in this house without offending Damien.

Bill gently scooped her up and carried her to his room, where he kicked the door closed and placed her softly on the already mussed bed. He stood over her, watching for a moment the way her golden hair stretched out like a spidery wreath on his pillow, the way her clothes teased him and dared him to remove them. The way her chest rose and fell, begging to be touched and admired and love by Bill.

Slowly, he knelt down on the bed, his lips falling on that smooth valley between two perfect hills.

Soon, their souls would join, and if Bill played his cards right, if he could make Victorine feel what he felt, maybe he could wake up in the morning with her still there. And maybe she would be there tomorrow. And the next day. And if Bill played the cards right, she would stay forever. He would give up Valium for her, smoking, drinking… He had given up a lot for her already; a few more things wouldn’t hurt.

“V,” Bill said, tracing back up to her jaw line, kissing it delicately. “Victorine…” He loved the way her name and skin in combination sent a melody coursing through him, a melody to a song he never heard before meeting her. He loved the way that combination tasted—it was a flavor he could never perfect in any kitchen. They had to make it together. “How much did you miss me?”

He needed reassurance before he gave her his heart again. It was bruised and beaten thing by now. She had trampled it, ripped it, beaten it, and now it was scarred and ugly. But with each kiss, each touch, the scabs fell away and his heart beat alive again, healing slowly. But come morning, as was routine, he would wake up and she would be gone and his heart would be left in shambles, in a heap on the floor by his discarded clothes and her forgotten shoes.

Yes. That was the word going through Victorine's head over and over again as the scene played out. Once or twice, she wondered why she'd ever want to leave Bill. He felt so good. He was the best feeling in the entire world, whether it was being pressed up against him, or kissing his amazing lips, or feeling his hands run over her skin...even just making eye contact. It was all amazing. But the majority of the time, she wasn't thinking at all. Her mind would go blank, and the only thing she would know is that she wanted him more than anything. She didn't even worry about being missed at rehearsal.

Somehow she ended up on the bed. How she got there was a blur. All that mattered was the now, in the moment. He knelt next to her, and kissed down her cleavage, and back up to her jaw line. She closed her eyes, breathing hard. When his lips met her bare skin, it was unlike anything she'd ever felt. She could search all over the world, looking in every nook and cranny, in every building every built, and walk every street ever paved, and never find something to make her feel like this. It was pure bliss. She felt so complete with him—but he couldn’t ever know that. No one could ever know that she needed anyone else to feel whole. That would ruin everything. She had to stay where she was now. Maybe not always happy…but it was worth it. It was worth the attention in Victorine’s mind, and it was worth moments like this.

“V,” he said, but she hardly heard him. His lips were on her jaw, and she was still in heaven. She just lay there, her mind quickly drifting off to somewhere she was not. Her arms were loose by her side, her palms facing up, her fingers relaxed. “Victorine,” he spoke again, “How much did you miss me?”

She fought back the reaction to snap open her eyes. The question had caught her off guard. How much had she missed him? She missed him constantly. All the time. It drove her nuts. It kept her up at night. In her mind, she approached the wall she built around her real feelings, the very ones that she kept from everyone. Her mind-self noticed that some of the bricks were missing from the wall, and the cement holding the remaining ones together was starting to crumble. She could see her other mind-self on the outside of the wall, through the holes. That one was the one that everyone on the outside saw. They saw the aloof, brilliant, on top of the world Victorine Delavent. Was that one going to answer, or was the one inside the wall going to?

“More than you could ever imagine,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure which one of her selves spoke, because she said it with the real-feelings side of her. But the one on the outside of the wall came through, because passion, lust, pure want, or maybe all three, were dripping off her words. She immediately wrapped an arm around his neck, and pulled his mouth down onto hers. With the other, she started skillfully unbuttoning his shirt with just one hand. His chest was warm, and she could feel just a hint of perspiration starting to form on it (the sexy kind, of course). She didn’t know exactly where this was going, but wherever it was, she was ready for it.

Bill was nervous and he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because it had been months since he last made love to Victorine. Maybe it was because each time he did, he would wake up in the morning with the pillow beside him empty. Or he would go to make her breakfast and emerge from the kitchen, full plate, to an empty apartment.

But there was a false hope that Bill groped at and held tightly to. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe he would wake up and this would be a dream. Maybe he would wake up and they will be married and their son or daughter would be in the next room. Valium would be a nightmare. Heartbreak would be a nightmare. And this would be their reality.

“More than you could ever imagine,” Victorine whispered as she pulled Bill to him. With skilled hands, she unbuttoned his shirt, and Bill couldn’t help but wonder how many other shirts of how many other men she had unbuttoned before and between him, and how many she would after him. That was, if there was an after.

Bill’s hands eagerly but gently traveled down her torso, rolling her shirt up and over her head.

“You know this,” Bill’s lips kissed her shoulder as he slid her straps down. “I know you know this.” The other shoulder. “I love you so much.”

And as his trousers were tossed to the wayside by either him or Victorine. By this point, it didn’t matter. It was just them, only them, tonight. A night that would last as long as Bill could make it.

Bill rolled them over. He gasped for air as Victorine kissed his neck. The only sound that came out was a musical moan, long and vibrating, that decended down a scale. It was only Victorine. Only Victorine who could make him sing at a time like now, when he was most vulnerable. And he loved it.

Damien had never seen this much money in his life before. Sitting in the middle of briefcases and briefcases piled with his entire savings account made him feel like an old Scrooge McDuck cartoon. He wanted to spread it everywhere and dive in head first, but Damien wasn’t sure he could even manage to create depth. He’d probably just spread twenties and hundreds all over the floor and make a mess. If he hadn’t been the one cleaning Bill’s apartment most days, he might not have cared so much. But he’d just vacuumed yesterday; the money stayed in open briefcases for admiration and thought.

The clerk at the bank thought Damien ridiculous to empty his entire account. You could see it in the clerk’s eyes, hear the tremor in his voice when he asked: “Are you certain, Monsieur Michaud?”, even though the bloke hadn’t voiced his disapproval. Damien thought of it as a test. He was reminded of his dad—his smart, savvy, safe dad—who would never drain an entire account, unless economic times were unbelievably hard. It was just one more difference they would have. Damien, though, was not impulsive. This was part of his elaborate social suicide. Step one to coming out to his dad: make sure getting cut off wasn’t a possibility. Granted, when Lucian checked the accounts and saw that Damien had cashed in all his savings, he’d probably be confused and a little angry. But he’d be too distracted to care that his son was gay. And that was what Damien was counting on.

It was a plan. Better than taking Ashton to a gay bar and hoping she got the hint. Better than telling Dad that Ashton was “great” and being deliberately vague to what he was referring. Better than marrying the girl to save face and produce artistically inclined businessmen babies. Even Bill, who thought all of Damien’s plans were crap, would have to agree that this was Damien’s best idea yet. The only thing Damien had to do was figure out what to do with all this cash. He could store some of it under his bed, but he wondered just how old-school mafia that made him look. He wondered if that would put a red “X” on Bill’s house for robbers. He could open a new bank account, but he didn’t know how. Natalie had opened Damien’s account for him; she and Lucian managed it for him. Maybe he needed a Swiss bank account for all this money. It was quite a lot and would need to be kept safe if it was meant to support Damien through his artsy career. He could get a safe, but he didn’t want to leave the money unattended to go shopping for one. He’d have to wait until Bill got home and was willing to sit guard of it. Still, Damien was determined that this was his best plan yet. It had to be. The other ones really were crap.

He picked up a bundle of hundreds and tried to fan it out in his hand. Instead, it felt heavy and bricklike and Damien figured he wasn’t getting a badass Facebook picture out of this anytime soon. He sighed and tossed it back on top of the pile. Just as it went “thunk”, the lock in the door went “click”. Damien started snapping briefcases shut like a madman. In all likelihood, Bill was home. But just in case it was a burglar…

"All good things came in two things," Bill's dad would always say, "arcs and coupon books." Sometimes, though, his father would change it. All good things for that day would come in hand wrapped birthday gifts and Manilla envelopes. Sometimes, all good things came in groups of nine or in broken down cars. Today, all good things had been coming as surprises, and at a natural high like this, Bill didn't care what else they came as today. He was happy. For the first time in a long time, he was happy enough to be considered blissfully unaware of how miserable he could possibly be tomorrow. It didn't matter now. What did matter was that he would march up those nine flights of awkwardly spaced steps and arrive home a free and happy man for the first time since moving in. It was a milestone, a tick mark on his life's timeline that read 'became himself again'.

And opening his apartment door would lead him not only to questions to slowly bring him down from this elevated sense of self-worth confidence, but also to another bundle of good things.

Briefcases, overflowing like fountains with money littered his living room, covering every square inch in brown cases and multicoloured paper bills, leaving little more than a walkway to the epicentre, where sat amongst it all, a very wide-eyed and pale looking Damien.

Bill felt his heart sink to his ankles. He double checked the address to make sure he hadn't entered the wrong flat. He pinched himself after confirming this as his own apartment as shook his curly brown head like a dog shaking water from his ears. If Bill didn't know better, he'd think Damien-- sweet, gentle, innocent Damien-- had robbed a bank.

"Oh, God," He said, his voice higher than he thought possible. "My best mate's a criminal..."

Damien reached around for the only possible weapon he could find; a beer bottle from last night that never made it to the recycling bin. He held it aloft, high above his head, ready to bring it crashing down on the intruder’s head. But when the intruder turned out to be nothing more than a surprised-looking Bill, Damien set down the bottle and relaxed. Bill, meanwhile, shook his head almost violently.

"Oh, God," he said in a shockingly high voice. "My best mate's a criminal..”

“No!” Damien protested. “This is all mine, I swear!”

It didn’t take long for Damien to realize that saying the money was all his probably didn’t convince anyone he wasn’t a bank robber. He laughed weakly and shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I just emptied my savings account. This is my inheritance. Or, rather, what I can get ahold of before Dad disowns me or something.”

In the fraction of a moment between Bill's realization and Damien's next statement, a thousand million ideas flooded Bill's mind. They could stash the money, get nose jobs and moustaches and flee the country. They could donate to a worthy organization. They could march into that bank and apologise for the mistake and leave as free men. Or Damien could sit there and explain to him what the hell was going through his mind.

“No! This is all mine, I swear!”

It took a mental image of Damien rolling around in the dough and cackling maniacally for Bill to be totally convinced that his best mate was now a felon and had gone completely 'round the bend.

“That’s not what I meant. I just emptied my savings account. This is my inheritance. Or, rather, what I can get ahold of before Dad disowns me or something.”

Although Bill was relieved that his friend wasn't a criminal and didn't need to rob a bank to get money, he was still confused. Was this his idea of asserting his independence?

"By 'or something' do you mean dies? Because he's not that old yet, mate."

Bill's legs felt heavy at the sight of all of that money. He waded his gentle way into the pool of briefcases, sitting across from Damien on the couch. "Damien, tell me," Bill said, rubbing a spot on the side of his face. "What the hell is going on in that bleeding head of yours?" Bill tried to keep his voice level and calm in this wheat field of Euros. He had never seen this much money in his life. One briefcase full was more than he had in his own account. It was astounding, really, seeing this much. And he was suddenly, for the first time in his life, jealous of his friend's bank account. It wasn't enough to make him murderous or spiteful, but it was enough to make his stomach churn around in swirly circles. This much money at once was overwhelming.

Damien could only imagine what Bill must have thought of him. Surely, he seemed crazy. He wasn’t. As far as Damien was concerned he was in his right mind—completely and totally. Even though his plan lacked some foresight, such as not having a safe, it was as good as a plan could get when Damien was at an utter loss. If he didn’t tell his dad he was gay, he was doomed to marry Ashton. In that case, he didn’t really want her to be able to lay claim to the Michaud fortune, or, rather, what he had access to. It was his money; his family’s money. And though Ashton was a sweet girl, she left Damien with the impression that her shopping bill would probably eat through his paychecks. She had expensive tastes in clothes and shoes and, well, everything else. Damien didn’t know how to curb that, other than to not have any money she could access. If he did tell his dad that he was gay, there was the chance that Lucian would disown him. In that case, Damien didn’t want to be destitute. He may have judged Ashton’s spending habits, but even Damien wasn’t a big enough hypocrite to think he would be able to manage his own lifestyle on a meager set designer budget. He had to be realistic. If he wanted to be financially stable—and maintain his way of life—he’d need all the money he could scrounge up. In the case that Lucian didn’t disown him, he’d just re-deposit the money. Plain and simple. It was a genius, beautiful, amazing plan. But Bill still probably thought it was crazy.

"By 'or something' do you mean dies?” asked Bill. “Because he's not that old yet, mate."

Damien scowled and snapped shut one of the nearest briefcases. He hugged it to his chest, as though it was a teddy bear and he glowered over it at Bill, who was now settled on the couch.

"Damien, tell me," Bill said, rubbing a spot on the side of his face. "What the hell is going on in that bleeding head of yours?”

“I’m coming out to my dad,” he snapped. “Tomorrow. This—“ he gestured at the heaps of briefcases. “—is just precautionary… In case he decides to disown me after all. Not dies, moron. Though, I suspect that’s a possibility when I tell him I’m gay.”

He clutched his chest, gasped, twitched and shut his eyes in imitation of a heart attack. He lay there, still, for a minute and then popped an eye open at Bill. He sighed.

“You think I’m mad,” he said, sitting back up. “But that’s okay. At least I’m going to be honest. And rich. God knows we’ll find something to do with this money.”

“I’m coming out to my dad. Tomorrow. This is just precautionary… In case he decides to disown me after all. Not dies, moron. Though, I suspect that’s a possibility when I tell him I’m gay.”

Bill could understand his frustrations. Ben went through similar things. Granted, Ben didn't have a grandiose plan that resembled a maze that had been solved, erased, and solved again. Ben simply came home, and said simply to their parents "Hello, mum and dad, I'm gay. What's for lunch?" Bill remembered watching from around the corner, holding his his breath, hoping for the best. Their mother went quiet, their father laughed, thinking he had said it for kicks. But once Ben repeated himself, double checking that they had heard him and his father was not, instead, laughing at the comic section of the Sunday news.

There was a moment of silence. And their mum said simply, "roast." More silence followed and Bill began to turn blue from holding his breath.

"Did you hear me?" Ben asked again. "I'm gay."

"Yes, dear, I heard you. If I had a problem with it, I wouldn't let you have any of the roast," their mum said, basting the meat. Their father still laughed. "I can't believe the way you said it...." Was all he managed to get out.

Ben's face went red with anger. "Why can't ANYTHING be a big deal in this house?" and he marched upstairs, bringing Bill with him.

If Damien's parents were anything at all like Bill's (which Bill thought they were until Damien's mother had an affair and Damien's father started shaking up with Ashton), they'd be accepting of it as well.

“You think I’m mad. But that’s okay. At least I’m going to be honest. And rich. God knows we’ll find something to do with this money.”

"I see where you're coming from," Bill said slowly, wrapping his mind around Damien's plan and rolling it over and over again in his mind. "But don't you think this a little extreme? And just what do you plan to do with this money?"